


Gloria Patri

by Carmenghia



Category: Satan's Alley (2008)
Genre: Anal Sex, Exile, I can't believe I wrote a story based on a fake trailer, M/M, Oral Sex, Priests, Religion, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:07:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26287717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmenghia/pseuds/Carmenghia
Summary: I wrote this ages ago, and thought it was lost forever until it turned up on an old drive. Just a silly, overly dramatic thing, because I wish Satan’s Alley was real. I named Tobey’s character Father Connor Doyle, because he had no name.  Also, my Latin is dodgy, so if you are a Latin Scholar, I apologize.  It’s been years since I’ve taken Latin. This has no basis in actual reality. Lastly, this obviously has religious themes, so if that is not your thing, keep pressing on!
Relationships: Father O'Malley/Apprentice Monk





	Gloria Patri

_Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto,_

_Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper, et in saecula saeculorum._

_Amen._

~

Almost a fortnight the new arrival has been here. He says little, stares often. I wonder if I appear as a wild man, some exiled beast, like that you find in children’s tales. A Minotaur, perhaps, or a Bog Beast. I doubt he has been informed of the reason for my exile. I know not his, and he does not volunteer it.

He is a fair sort, but not immune to hard work. There is an abundance of that on this craggy piece of land, for certain. He seems to be affected by the isolation already, more so than I was when I first came to Mohr. He does not however, seem to share the same affliction I do, but the way he stares at me makes me ask myself if what I see is trickery, or perhaps a reflection of myself in him.

“Father?”

I press my finger up to my lips. The vow of silence is one I have kept in earnest.

“Forgive me, I did not realise that you had taken the vow. At least now I know you aren’t a mute.”

Doyle is his name. I feel the warmth of my cheeks as I smile at his humor. It’s the first time I’ve had that feeling since my last cold winter in Belfast.

The sea is calm tonight. The roar of waves that greeted me in my first winter has yielded to a more calm and constant sound – that of water against rock, weathering away the debris of the careless souls that toss themselves from the cliffs to eternal damnation. 

I no longer wish to throw myself off of them. The weather has improved, and if I was a man prone to witchery and superstition, I would say it was because of Father Doyle.

He waits at the door. He is lonely, I know. And his presence discomforts me in ways that he can’t know.

I dip my head and close my journal.

“They didn’t tell me there wasn’t a congregation here. There is none, correct?”

I nod in the affirmative. What lies youth endures to find the truth. And he can’t be more than a lad of twenty-five. My ancient four decades must show like the crumbling stone of this old structure. 

“I feel as if I have been exiled, and I do not know why.”

He pauses, and looks at my meager belongings. I have not gathered much since I’ve been here.

“Do you?” 

His eyes are innocent, I can tell. Like Henri’s were. 

I nod, and look away. 

“You do.” 

He draws closer, sitting on my bed. His garment shifts, and I press the flesh of my hands together hard, in an effort to steady my breathing.

“Please, tell me. I beg you. A whispered word is allowed, is it not? Father…”

I scribble on a piece of discarded journal paper.

_Tell me what you did before you came here, and I shall tell you why you are here._

He folds the paper in a soft way, his nails trimmed to the quick. He seems fastidious in his personal care, not that I have ever see him do as much as splash water on his face.

“I was at a small parish, right outside Dublin. An agreeable place, a little provincial. But it was not a season that I got a letter from Belfast, ordering me here.”

There is something else, I am sure. Perhaps he was too friendly with an elder’s daughter, or worse, his son. 

He shakes his head, his sigh heavy and burdened. “Do you ever question your God?”

Ah, a blasphemer. Idealistic to think that his questions are only seen as questions and not his word. 

I think of my silence, and what it’s affording my chamber visitor at this moment. Even though I too question my God, I do not think he would want me to remain silent in the face of such despair. 

“We all do…” The words escape, and his eyes shift from my eyes to my lips as I lean forward. I wonder if he has heard me, as he stares at me, his eyes widening, either out of shock or confusion.

“Your voice…”

“Eye, it is…” I push the breath out again, my lips dry from disuse. I lick them to gain purchase on the words that seem to be fumbling out of my mouth.

“Are you from the North, then?”

“Is it obvious?” 

“It is deeper and stronger than I imagined it. Rougher…” I see his hands are clutching my bed linen tightly, and I am concerned for his trouble, but almost more so for my own. Surely the Church would not have sent him as temptation? Or a test?

“Unused, mostly. But you seemed troubled. And I do not think that my silence serves you in your time of need. Did you ever share these thoughts with those around you?”

“Perhaps I have a looser tongue than most.” He looks at me intently, and curiously, his fingers pressing his rosary into the folds of his robe. It seems that his hands are everywhere and nowhere, a nervousness that I only attribute to that of attraction. But I know that cannot be the case, for he has shown no signs of such behavior.

I have to remind myself that he is not Henri. Henri was my Gaul, his accent Bordeaux-laced English, his delight at Eire almost as much as his delight with me. Henri who would have pulled me into my makeshift bed, praying the rosary as his lips traveled over my body. 

_Oh Glorious Mysteries!_

Henri who repented and returned to France. 

Betrayed, and yet still willing to forgive. I curse each day that I wish for him back in my arms.

“A loose tongue catches more flies than honey.” I lean back, and pull two candles closer, leaving one on my table beside the bed and the other on my writing table, careful to keep errant paper away. I have learned my lesson about keeping too close to the flame.

He smiles kindly, his face older as the light catches the roughness of hair on his face. It is slight, but he must meticulously remove it day and night.

“Tell me your name, Father.” 

Such familiarities I haven’t afforded myself. The personal only leads to dangerous relationships. But he is beautiful and we are alone, and I tell the Lord my Savior to forgive me.

“Aidan.”

“Much better. Formality was never a particularity of mine. I guess I should have never entered a profession so dogmatic.” He pauses, clearing his throat. “Connor.”

I feel light and warm all at once Connor is about as far away from Henri, but the feeling is still the same. Shameful as I look up to the heavens, pray for the strength I don’t have.

“Connor.” I repeat. “Your questioning is what you led you here. Or rather, the path that was chosen for you. It is not your place to question, especially to those that you are meant to minister to.”

“Perhaps I was too liberal with the way I interpreted the Gospel, or perhaps I am just not suited to follow a book that I myself question.”

I wonder why he has even bothered to join the Priesthood. It seems like someone with such questioning would have been found out before getting as far. And it makes me wonder why he had such determination to don the cloth.

“It perplexes me, Connor. Why become a priest, if you are this troubled?”

“I thought I was called to it. I was encouraged by my family, when they realized I had a gift of making people listen to me.”

“Why not a lecturer in a university then? Or something more amenable to being amongst people?”

He shakes his head. “Perhaps the choice was more made for me, at too young of an age. My parents believed me to be special, I suppose.”

“Perhaps you are, and this is a way of our Lord testing you.” I offer it up as suggestion, but I know in my heart, it is mere excuse. I have learned to see those that question as I do. His faith is not secure, and he believes that the holiest of callings could make him infallible. 

“I doubt it is a test, Aidan. Perhaps I was foolish to talk to people in the village as I did, like a friend, or a confidant.” His face contorts hard, as if pulling a thread of a memory from a place it has gone to be forgotten. “There was this one boy, a cobbler’s son in the village.” He pauses, letting the hood of his robe fall of his head completely. “He asked me questions I had no answer for, nor did I feel like the teachings of the church suited the answers I could give.”

“It’s not unusual for a boy to have questions. I did, and I am sure you did. There is nothing wrong with guidance, Connor.”

“But there was none to give, Aidan. He came to me, quite upset, on the eve of his departure. His parents were sending him to his Uncle’s house in another county, and he wished for me to intervene.”

“Was there a reason for him to stay?”

“There was. His friend.” Connor’s body shifts and I feel his knee against mine. Deliberate or not, I do not move, as my heart pumps louder in my head.

“A friend? Well, it sounds like perhaps an attachment to his home, nothing strange about that. We all have friends that we wish to not leave.”

“That’s what I thought. But the more despondent he got, the more truth came forth. The friend was his true love, he said. No one else in the world was meant for him.”

I couldn’t think of what he might say next. His voice is soothing me, and I wish he would tell this story forever.

“That sounds like the whims of a boy with no idea of love.” 

“I thought perhaps it was a fleeting feeling, too. But if you could have seen the boy’s earnestness and his resolve to stay, well how could I tell him anything but to follow his heart? To marry his love?"

“Well, that is not the worst advice to give, considering.” 

“If I had known that the friend was another boy, I suppose I might not have counseled him in such a way. I would have told him to run to the ends of the island, to find safety in the remoteness of the former village, or sail to America.”

I fumble, my hand falling off the desk. I am shocked by such a loose admission. To do so in most company would be treacherous at best, deadly at the worst.

“Another boy…” I remain neutral, but my eyes are mapping Connor’s face for reaction. 

“Yes. A degenerate to most people, I would imagine. But all I saw was love, Aidan. How could I deny that? Isn’t love the strongest of all our human emotions? We are imperfect, yes, but I saw nothing but perfection in his love.”

“The Church wouldn’t look kindly on that line of thinking. You didn’t learn it in seminary, for certain.”

He stills, and looks at me, words said fast on his lips, like they’ve been practiced before.

“There are things one learns that are not found in great books or prayer.”

_Miserere mei, Domine, quoniam infirmus sum._

“And what happened to the boy?” My breath is short and quick, the subject so close to my own heart that I feel my face well up.

“He ran away shortly after we talked. His friend was gone, too.”

“And you really think that this would be kept private?”

“Perhaps I am naïve in some ways. I did not think that alone would condemn me to Mohr.”

“Then you are wrong. Surely the boy’s parents or someone else figured it out. If no one has told you before, Connor, you are a fair looking sort, and if there were rumors already of the boy in his town, well, I believe you can piece together what people might have thought.”

“So why not confront me, or worse?”

“Because Belfast wishes not to show their dirt, Connor. And to them, we are dirt. The Church has bigger problems, and troublesome priests like you and I do not need to make things worse.”

“Are you here for corrupting young minds, then?” 

“No, that is not why I am here.” I pull back, legs and arm folded. A smart man would know I was on the defense, but Connor is neither bothered by my posture nor alarmed.

“Tell me, then. I know nothing of you Aidan, so whatever you’ve done has not found its way to Dublin, at least, not yet.”

“It is late, perhaps you should rest.” I lick my finger and thumb, and snuff the candle on my desk the way my father taught me, the saliva shielding me from the flame.

His hand rests on my arm, and I look at him, hoping my face does not show the pleasure of being touched, if even in an innocent way. “It cannot be any worse than what I have seemingly done. And really, should it concern you that I will judge you, knowing my feelings towards the Church and its teachings?”

“But my reasons are personal, and in my case, concern more than just me. To tell you why I am here means that you know more than just that I question not only my calling, but the Church itself.”

“Is that a bad thing?” 

“It is the personal which has put me here, Connor.”

“Do you wish to be married? Are you married?” The corners of his mouth turn, his mouth open, a little tut-tut of a laugh escaping. It lightens our conversation, and gives me resolve to press on.

“No, I am not married, nor do I wish to be. But there are things I do wish to have, that go against what I was taught and thought I believed.”

“You like to obscure the reason, Aidan. Should there be no secrets between us? We are both condemned to this place for some time. I’d rather know why you are here. I would think of nothing else if you did not tell me.”

I want to hesitate, as I think of the pain that inflicted on me, before my arrival. I bear the scars on my legs and thighs where penance was sought, but where I refused to yield. 

“I too, found love, Connor. But unlike your parishioner, I am not one to think that love conquers all. We were separated after he confessed to his Parish leaders of our affair. He went back to France, and I here.”

The air is cold in my room, and I know I should stoke the meager fire in the corner. It has been burning out slowly, embers catching and cracking the last of the wood. The red and orange remind me of Henri’s favorite coat, a gift from his mother that he only wore once. And Conner sits, his eyes looking everywhere but at me. And I know that I am due for long days of silence. Perhaps it is fair, considering I have left him in the same situation for so long.

He moves to do what I assume is leave, but instead rests slightly back, casual on my bed like he’s a constant visitor. His forehead tightens and releases, his eyes closing.

“Do you miss him?”

I sigh. “You do not have to counsel me as one of your own.”

He opens his eyes, and they are no longer the eyes of a man that has mere concern. Paris or Mohr, I know the look of need.

“It is not counsel I seek to give when I talk to you, Aidan.” 

“Then what do you seek to give me, Connor?” 

“Comfort, if you let me. More, if you desire.”

I wish to silence his mouth with my lips, but he doesn’t know what he is saying. Perhaps he’s intoxicated by the idea of sinning in such a way. Perhaps he doesn’t realize that it’s one thing to disagree with the Church, another to act on it.

“Is that wise?” I know it is not an answer, because I cannot say no to what he offers me.

“Why do you deny yourself such pleasures? Why do you ask me why I am a priest while you still wear this robe?” He tugs at the rough fabric, his hand lifting it at the knee, and then higher. 

“I do not know. It is all I have known.”

“And your lover?”

I shake my head. “He is all I have known.” I hear the sadness in my own voice as Connor’s hand stops its travel under my robe to touch my rough face, fingertips touching my lips.

“It does not have to be that way.”

He stands, his hands pulling me up with him. I feel unsteady and rough in the head, as if the sitting has prevented me from acting.

“This is madness.” 

He licks his lips, and shakes his head, taking my hands in his own. “This is peace.”

His lips are not what I expected, but they are warm and feel better than the rapture of my Lord himself. I believe in nothing but Connor’s lips, his touch as he holds me, hands pulling me toward his body, his tongue and mouth adventurous, playful as he coaxes me to follow his lead, my mouth chasing his like a young lad following a lass.

My hands find all the places I want to touch. He is even more beautiful than my Henri. There is a roughness to the angles of his body that make me grab him forcefully, my hands pressing into his hipbones as he sways forward, lifting his robe with quickness, his flesh cool until it yields to my touch. My hold eases only for a moment, but he pushes against me.

“There is no need to be gentle; I am not a virgin field.”

“You cannot be more than twenty-five…” I still have time to pull his robe back down, send him away. 

He nods, a small smile spreading across his face. “I am in my twenty-eighth year and I have lived lifetimes already. My parents sent me away at a young age, and I learned much before entering the priesthood.” He urges my hands up, taking the robe with him, until he is naked and I feel the rise of my own desire pressing against his own. I gasp as he does - our mouths open and slack, denial-raised awareness of what has been missing.

“Show me, then.” I feel like a begging dog, mangy and weak after going without.

His hands smooth my hair down, like a mother would to her baby. There is heat and hardness, and I let him guide me, his hands on my shoulders, letting me kneel in front of him.

“A familiar position?” He takes his hands and folds my hood down, his hands grazing my ears and my neck, forcing my gaze upward. 

“Oh yes, Father.” I rest my cheek on his thigh, inhaling the salt of Connor’s body. It inflames my nose, and makes my entire body shake with the anticipation of what may come. 

He is a quick type, and he smiles at me, his hands lifting up, an imaginary chalice in his hand.

 _Corpus Christi_. I take him inside my mouth, my hands touching the flesh before it enters my mouth. He is earth and I am air – and in this forsaken place, I’ve found the peace that Connor speaks of.

He’s touching my shoulders, my face, guiding me; as I do for him what Henri never let me do. It was one thing for touching flesh, another to so wantonly take it in one’s mouth. But unlike the dirtiness which Henri insisted it was, I find nothing but divinity in the press of him into me.

“Please…” His words are strained, and his pleas turn into the rhythmic sounds of old Celts, Pagan chants in holy space.

My eyes close as his hands fist my hair, timed releases to the movement of my mouth on him. 

His body shakes, and I feel him release into me. 

_Sanguis Christi._ It is wrong to think of such things, but I feel the truest communion of my life, after years of emptiness. I take everything he chooses to give, my lips only letting go when he pushes away, spent.

“Aidan.” One word as he kneels, his lips touching mine, sharing body and blood.

I am without words as he guides me to the bed. I sit on the edge at first, my body still in need, and Connor so close. His hands, smaller than my own, undo the belt at my waist, my rosary falling on the bed. 

“Heavier than mine.”

I nod. “Older.” 

I help him as he lifts my robe off, my embarrassment tempered by the darkness of the room. 

“You are beautiful, Aidan.” His eyes gawk openly, my cock swollen against my thigh, my chest spread by manual labor, my stomach round slightly by age.

“I do not know what to say.”

“You do not have to say anything, unless you want to.” He leans his head down, his body resting against mine. I lean into the touch, and kiss his head. 

“Lean back.” The room is cold, but I feel the heat of his body as he presses me down onto my bed, my entire vision him over me.

“Do you think that is wise?” I know what he is doing.

“I believe so, yes. I have done this before.”

He straddles me, leaning over my body and I am enraptured as his body moves, presses close to me, his lips on my neck, kissing me, his nails grazing my arms, my neck, my sides. He whispers in my ear, soft words that make my throat hurt and my eyes sting. 

If he were to tie me up and make me his slave like a _Lianhan Shee_ , I would not resist.

“It is painful.” I run my hands down his back, feeling the easy muscle of youth, skin tight and resilient. 

“For a moment.” He kisses my forehead, and sits up, hair wild around him, eyes dark and wide, his hands running over my scars, tender touches that tell me he won’t ask, but knows all the same.

“You are braver than I am.”

He smiles as he licks his fingers. “For now.”

I still a hand on his hip and stomach and let him ease down. His eyes are closed, in pain and concentration as I watch myself disappear into his body.

How can this not be holy? My body flashes cold and hot, his eyes opening as I moan, and shift under him, letting him take me deeper, his back arching and stretching, hands bracing on my thighs as we hold onto each other. Our moans are benediction, and I am certain we are riling the spirits of those that inhabit the sacred ground that is our temporary prison.

“Connor, Connor…” I murmur, my body meeting his as we lose all sense of rhythm, animals seeking what they need most, blessed release. The moans feel like catharsis as I empty into him, my body filled with something that feels like the spirit in every pore. He is covered with sweat, cooling on his body rapidly as he touches me, taking a little of the feeling for himself.

I reach for him, and he straightens with a grimace, his body lying upon mine like I was a pillow. 

I stare at him for some time, his eyes opening and closing, drowsy and content with my silence. I trace old patterns on his back, my favorite Celtic cross, the coastline of Ireland, words and phrases from sermons I gave, and never will again. He knows I am mapping out what I feel across his back, blue tribal markings invisible to anyone but him and me.

“I will learn them all.” He says sleepily, and I do not know exactly what he means, but I am content with the answer for now.

I lick the corner of my thumb and fingertip, and deaden the flame. here is no need for light when a night’s peaceful slumber lies ahead. And I know if there is retribution to come, then it will not come in the waning hours of this night or any other. 

Judgment is not here on Earth, nor is it for Man to decide.

-end-


End file.
